by Donna Alam
Afterwards, post-coitally, or as soon as possible, according to the space, Dylan would curl around me, or maybe I’d be splayed out across his chest. Wherever we’d be, he’d forward a copy to my phone. And we’d . . . well, we’d watch. Together. Our commentary might be giggled or hushed, but they were always low on critiques because these viewings almost always led to more sex.
Other recordings, other times, there might be preparation; maybe a discussion of where we’d like our passion to head. A direction. Maybe we’d wanted to try something new. Maybe roleplay. Those times could be fun, though mostly contrived, but I didn’t mind pretending for the camera, even if I’m no actress. I could be the naughty schoolgirl or the slutty maid, but Dylan never wanted to play a role himself. Not with me. He’d said he wanted to keep that side of himself for work. For other people. For money. For fame. He only ever wanted to be the real Dylan with me. The sweet and the sexy. The slightly dominant and extremely hot. I got the real deal—all of him, including the large portion stashed in his pants. The long schlong or the thing Nat has begun to refer to since that damned leaked video as his mighty aubergine.
And it does have a pretty spectacular purple head . . .
Not helpful, brain.
No, really. Stop imagining his head.
Anyway, for those recordings—the longer ones—Dylan would use a pretty snazzy camera and tripod. And we’d watch those recordings afterwards, too. Sometimes with beer and popcorn. I know—a little silly, but it worked for us. It was fun. We were fun. And afterwards, we’d still have sex. Shocker, right? On the sofa. The floor. Once or twice with me hanging onto the archway near the door for dear climax.
It’s footage of these sessions that I know are beneath my bed. I may have deleted them from my laptop in a teary fit, but I know they’re backed up externally. I just refused to acknowledge this until now.
On my hands and knees against the shaggy cream rug, I drag out two boxes from under my bed, desperate this morning to find my external hard drive; as in, the need to be driven hard tingling between my legs.
‘Bingo.’
Beneath an old mobile phone and a pile of bills, the silver hard drive beckons, and I’d be lying if I said my hand doesn’t tremble as I reach for it. Throwing it on the bed next to my pillow, I start reloading the contents of the box, slamming the lid on and shoving it back under the bed with one push.
‘Laptop,’ I announce to the empty room. I say this with resolve, as though it’s my counterargument to anyone who might be likely to talk me out of this. Silly, considering the only person in the room is me. ‘And not likely.’ Since when did I begin talking to myself? ‘No, I’m doing this. It might not be healthy for my mind, at least. But maybe for my body? Hell, yes. I need this.’
I’m in the kitchen now, giddy and lightheaded as I unplug the cable from the socket before carrying my laptop back to my bedroom. I pause as I pass the old dresser, catching a glimpse of myself.
What are you doing?
My face is flushed, the deep red marking a path down my neck and disappearing beneath my pyjama shirt. My heart dips as my laptop, crushed to my chest, almost tumbles from my grip as I reach to push a tangle of hair away from my face.
‘Close call.’ I address my toes rather than the mirror. Wonder how long it’ll be before I can no longer see those. I make a note to book a pedicure with Nat.
My laptop takes but a moment to fire up, and as it whirs through the motions and differing screens, I shimmy out of my pyjama pants, hesitating at the matching shirt. It’s ridiculous that I consider it a little indecent to whip the whole lot off for what I’m about to do, but I can’t help how I feel. I eventually strip naked, pulling the cooling sheets over my chest, ready, resolved, and a little desperate as my nipples, already hard with expectation, tighten at the brush of the cooled cotton.
Pulling the laptop closer, I sign in, plug the hard drive into the port, and then open the folder creatively titled Moments and click indiscriminately.
A one-time thing, I tell myself. It doesn’t matter which scene. Just get in, get off, and get out.
My every nerve ending flicks and draws tight as the screen flickers to life. I sit up suddenly and shove a pillow under the keyboard, settling myself under the sheets again. A bit like a teenage boy concerned at being caught playing with himself.
On screen, the dark of Dylan’s clothing passes the camera set across from our bed, the room behind suffused with a soft, warm light. It was daytime, as I recall, though the drapes are drawn. I remember we were going out. Nothing fancy, just an afternoon barbecue at a friend’s place, one of the few couples who knew about us. It was the couple whose wedding we met at, in fact.
The room fills with sunlight as Dylan opens the door into the hallway, not that the camera shows; I just know, given this place was once my home.
‘Babe,’ he shouts. ‘Come help me look for my keys. I can’t find them.’ The door closes once more, and the room grows dim. A moment later, I hear my own voice, though not the words, just its teasing lilt before sunlight cuts into the room again.
‘You’d forget your head if it—oh, my God!’
Shock fills my tone as, out of focus, Dylan grabs me from behind, kicking the door shut with his heel.
‘Surprise.’ He chuckles, dark and low, followed by the sound of our shuffling feet and his lips smacking exaggeratedly on my skin somewhere. My neck? Cheek? I can’t recall. Then we’re there, in the shot, he so much larger than me. Looming behind me almost. One arm wraps around my waist, clasping me to his chest, and his other hand moves over my mouth. My eyes are so wide—like saucer wide. There’s a mirror on the far wall, and the camera’s in front stood on its tripod. Strategically placed. I’m watching myself through the mirror, and that’s why my gaze is wide and clear—the excitement and trepidation that comes from being grabbed, from being filmed. From watching yourself screwing.
‘God, I love this dress.’ His voice is a rumble against my neck. ‘You look like icing on a fucking cake.’ The dress is pale blue and pretty plain but for a row of ruffles at the hem. I shiver as he licks the length of my neck, his lips at my ear, his eyes watching me through the mirror. And that gaze? He could capture cities with one look. Demolish. Wreck defences.
And he does.
‘You taste like cake, too. So good . . . ’ I can almost feel the word rumbling against my skin. ‘So fucking edible.’ I melt against him, the warm brush of his lips enough to visibly weaken my knees.
‘And you know you have the sweetest cunt I’ve ever tasted. I’ve told you that, babe.’ There’s an upward inflection to his words like he wants me to confirm he’s always so base. So crude.
My insides tighten with need as I watch myself nod behind his fingers.
‘Such a sweet, good girl.’
Above his hand, my eyes roll deliberately, and Dylan laughs again, a little harder this time. Meanwhile, the hand at my waist slides upwards, slipping the strap of my sundress from my shoulder.
‘Such a good girl,’ he repeats. ‘So nice, so pristine. You going somewhere nice, darlin’?’ This time in answer, I raise a solitary brow. ‘Because you look so pretty, baby. So pretty, and it makes me want to defile you.’ From soft and teasing to implied menace and threat; his tone—the words—their effect has my fingers working faster, between my legs becoming slick and wet.
On screen, I shake my head, my gaze clear and wide.
‘This dress makes me want to fuck you so hard . . .’ His fingertips trail along my collarbone, gliding down to the lace trimming my strapless bra. ‘You make me want to fuck you so hard. I can’t play nice all afternoon, watching you parade yourself in this dress. Not without getting under it first.’ His smile is feral and his eyes gleam. ‘I need you, baby. Or I’m following you into Joe’s bathroom later and bending you over the tub.’
I make a muffled mewl behind his hand as he slips his fingers into the lace cup, rolling my nipple. And that sound? It’s a response to his blend of promise and threat
; to the way he’s touching me. It’s a response to all the things I know he’s capable of making me feel.
‘Think you could keep quiet?’ I moan, my nipple now exposed and pebbling, despite the room’s warmth. ‘Maybe with your panties in your mouth.’ His answer is half threat and half tease. So familiar. So bittersweet. ‘What’ll it be? The later or now?’ His hand moves from my mouth to cup my chin, his other sliding between my legs. ‘That looks like a yes to both,’ he purrs.
I don’t answer, not with words, my body rising in greeting, both now and on screen, when he suddenly pushes the past me onto my back, spreading me diagonally across the bed. His head is immediately beneath the layer of pale cotton ruffles, and I’m breathless, my chest rising and falling as he bites the lace of my knickers, growling and shaking his head.
‘Stop! Stop that!’ My arms are flailing, hitting the mattress; his head wedged tightly between my thighs. But back in my bedroom, in Scotland, here and now, my heart aches. I’d expected to feel passion. To see sex. I wanted fucking and sweat and sounds. Not intimacy. Not this.
Tears prick against my eyelids as, on screen, I let out a long, tremulous moan as Dylan’s head emerges from the fabric, pushing my knees wide apart.
‘Ivy, you slay me,’ he whispers, his gaze glued to the lace between my thighs. ‘Was the dress not enough torture for one day?’ I giggle as he traces one finger the length of me, sliding the fabric between my wet slit. The giggle trails off, turning more purr-like, and that would be an apt description as I watch myself push up into his hand, like a cat enjoying being stroked and demanding more.
‘You like that? You like my fingers?’
‘Not as much as I like your cock.’ My voice is husky and laced with want, and with those words, the tone turns.
‘Tell me,’ Dylan demands, the words low in his throat as he dips his fingers under the elastic at my leg. I’m writhing against his hand. Against my own hand.
‘Dylan.’ His name hits the air like a sigh, as if it’s the answer to all the questions I’ve ever had—the answer to my every thought. ‘Your cock is the business.’ Or maybe it’s only the answer to the mysteries of my world. Especially as he loosens his belt buckle, the leather tongue sliding free with a schlick. He pulls the long, sleek hardness into his hand.
‘I thought it was for pleasure.’ He strokes once, twice, and I push up onto my elbows to watch; the hunger in my eyes unashamed and clear.
‘Your cock’—I push out the word with defiance and a pout—‘is my business.’
‘That’s right, baby. All for you.’ How can those few words sound gentle and feral all at once?
‘Then give it to me,’ I demand. ‘Fuck me hard.’
‘I thought I had to take care near your dress.’ I can see the corner of his cocky smile as he turns, giving the camera his profile. He looks like a picture in a magazine.
‘Screw the dress,’ I reply on the breath of a moan—a moan the result of the two fingers he’d curled deep inside. I don’t need to remember; my whole body is a reminder of how this man knew me, my inside clenching emptily as I watch the past me writhe. He knew me. This man knew every hitch in my breath. Knew my every sigh and tell. ‘I’ll change,’ I sigh out.
‘That’s not how this works.’ His reply is all husk and rasp. ‘I’m fucking you hard, but the dress stays. Now, afterwards. All afternoon. My fingerprints covering your skin and my cum inside you.’
‘But lunch—’
He spreads my knees wide, one of his against the bed. ‘And if you’re a good girl, a sweet girl, when we get home, I’ll strip you. And we’ll do it all again.’
‘You’re—’
‘Fucking you now.’
‘God!’ Mine is less plea than hitched breath as Dylan hooks a finger under the crotch of my knickers, rubbing himself through my wetness, once, twice, before sliding into me in one smooth thrust. It’s a motion that pushes the air out of us both, our sighs simultaneous. We still for a minute, lost in the other, just marvelling in our fit. And as Dylan rotates his hips, grinding against me, the sigh this time is all mine.
I whimper at the loss as he pulls back, tearing my knickers down my legs, demanding I spread.
He moves back, and on camera, I’m suddenly exposed. Wet and bare. In profile, with one knee still planted against the mattress, Dylan’s dick bounces in anticipation, hard and glistening as he looks at me with such want and need, that even today, it creates a knot in my chest. And makes me weak at the knees.
‘Mio Dio . . . This. You. Will be the death of me,’ he growls.
Leaning forward, he sinks into me—sinks into our kiss and my body. My hands are in his hair as he lifts my knee, his hips pistoning, spearing me again and again, while here, today, my insides today clench emptily, recalling the thick fill of him and the weight of his body against my skin. God, I’m close, both then and now, pleasure threatening to overload. My fingers slide harder, faster, as I focus on the screen—focus on the tension in his thigh and glutes as he drives into me. Again and again.
Tension builds between my legs, the sheet a weight too much—I push it off, away from my damp hair and skin. My mind focuses on that bare inch of need, the place where heat and sensation gather until fit to burst. Pleasure expands, my fingers working faster and faster as the edges of the room begin to blur. The sounds coming from my laptop are no longer the focus; rather, they are the soundtrack to my current pleasure. Dylan’s curses and grunts drive me higher; need and nature overtake me bodily, lifting my hips from the bed.
It’s such a cliché, but we climax together—the past and present me. We climax with his name on our lips.
My heart pounds and my thighs are at their twitching-foal phase when I lean over and flip the screen closed. I can’t listen anymore. I can’t deal with the sound of my name coming from him. I lie back on my pillows, spent and suddenly cold, reassuring myself it’s an itch scratched. That it means nothing. That I haven’t come so hard since we were together the last time in LA.
A thought crosses my mind, and I being to laugh. Nothing manic; I haven’t gone completely nuts. At least, not yet. It’s more an empty chuckle, one to deny the lump of emotion in my chest. A laugh, yeah. The irony. I’ve just realised I’ve joined the leagues of women all around the world, lying in bed and getting off to the movie star Dylan Duffy.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Ivy
‘You’re aff ya fuckin’ heid!’
Off his head drunk would be my guess.
It’s not unusual to hear a couple of drunks brawling on the streets of Auchkeld on Saturday night—yes, we live in a village, but it’s a village with three pubs, two liquor stores, and, well, we are Scots, after all—but it’s a wee bit more odd to hear drunks going at it on a slow Wednesday afternoon.
I don’t give a flying fuck what you want—you’re an arsehole. If you think you’re getting anywhere near her, you’re dreamin’, pal!
‘The language!’ June tsks as she ties a floral scarf over her newly set perm. ‘They’re starting early the day, no?’
At the reception counter, I continue to study a minuscule slice of dark hair stuck under a layer of my thumbnail; one of the downsides to cutting hair is that the stuff gets everywhere. Yes, between layers of nail, between toes—in my bra! I don’t look up from my examination and don’t really answer more than a vague hum. I’m not ignoring June, just warding off the inevitable argument we have every time I do her hair—she wants to pay, and I’m not going to allow her.
‘Drunk at this hour,’ she mutters. ‘Plain scandalous.’
‘It is a bit early to be traipsing the streets blootered,’ I eventually agree, sensing her opening her shopping bag to search for her wallet. ‘Who is it this time?’
As a diversion, it works; June turns to the large window behind.
‘I expect it’ll be old Tam and his pal. I hope they’re not hanging about,’ she says, pressing her cheek almost up to the glass as she strains to see the direction the shouting is co
ming from. ‘I’ve the messages to get before the shops close.’
I smile. The messages are something my granny would send me for when I was wee; usually a loaf of bread and a newspaper. Though it’s a sort of one word fits all, encompassing anything from a trip to the corner store to pick up a pint of milk to a full shopping trip.
‘Sweet creeping Jesus!’ June jumps as Natasha appears behind her, resting both hands on her grandmother’s thin shoulders. ‘You’ll give me a heart attack one of these days.’
‘That’s the plan, oldie,’ Natasha replies. ‘Then the house is mine!’ June doesn’t deign to answer, pursing her lips instead. ‘Did I hear old Tam’s pished again? That friend of his is proper bogin,’ she says, wrinkling her nose as she stares down the street.
‘That’s no way to speak of your elders, even if he is wee bit smelly. And a drunk,’ June chastises as she fastens the top button of her coat. But Nat doesn’t appear to be listening as, outside, the yelling draws nearer.
‘Oh, look it’s—oh!’ Nat recoils from the glass as though slapped. ‘Missed him by a baw-hair!’ she exclaims.
June tsks again louder this time. ‘And that’s an awful thing to say. Can you no’ call it what it is and say pubic hair?’
‘This from the granny who delights in saying cock.’ Nat frowns down at her gran. ‘Anyway, it’s not that old bugger fighting his own shadow this time. It’s someone much younger.’
‘Youngsters these days. Brawling in the streets. What would their mothers say?’